The fact is, darky stories are always nine-tenths white and one-tenth Negro. They are nine-tenths art, as most good stories are, and one-tenth nature; but all so nicely blended that the art—as all real art is—is concealed in the colors of the natural. And yet these stories are true to nature—in fact so natural that we fail to see where the natural ceases and the art begins. The darky who told about “Marse Chan” was the same who told of “Unk Eden’ro and Meh Lady.” They are all a clever white man who knows the darky as a mariner knows the sea, imitating the darky and making for him a story. Joel Chandler Harris was wiser in making one darky—Uncle Remus—tell all of his, and they therefore sound more natural. He was also wise in selecting the nursery yarns of “Brer Rabbit” and “Brer Fox,” for in telling them the darky is at his best. On the whole, I expect that Harris is the greater interpreter of the two, but this need not necessarily follow, because the Virginia and the Georgia darky differ very much in dialect just as the Tennessee darky differs from either of the others. Especially is this true of the Middle Tennessee darky who happened to belong to the wealthier class of white people. For every Negro is a born imitator.
In writing Negro dialect, then, these facts must be borne in mind, for, as I said, there are provincialisms in the Negro language, as in the white. The cracker dialect of Georgia differs from the mountain dialect of Tennessee, and so the darky language in Georgia differs much from that in Tennessee.
But at last Negro dialect devolves itself not so much in spelling—in dialect—as in mannerism. This is the fatal mistake which many writers make who have not been raised among Negroes and who seem to think that bad spelling and certain other forms of spelling make Negro dialect. No one should attempt a Negro story who is not thoroughly familiar with his ground, and then not unless he can tell a good story anyway. In other words, he must be an artist in that line, he must have a calling for story-telling, he must be able to create a great deal out of very little. For in Negro stories, as in all others, one fact, one glimpse is often sufficient for a whole story, as often one remark, aye, one word, shows us more plainly a person’s character than if we had spent years in studying him.
In Negro dialect, then, it is mannerism and not spelling that counts, for the fraud is quickly detected if the article be not genuine. The present darkies of Puck, Judge and other comic papers, and often even the stories in magazines, bear no more resemblance to the real article than dried apples do to the real fruit.
I know of nothing that misses the mark further, unless it be these same comic papers’ drawings of the Negro. These really represent nothing, and the “Mister Johnsings” darky and the darky that ends everything in a broad “ah” may be the product of Northern tenement houses, but his kinfolks down here would not know him if they met him in the road.
But as far as bad spelling is concerned, all dialect writers use more of it than is necessary. As a matter of fact, the Middle Tennessee darky, or he of the Black Belt of Alabama, who has been raised by educated white people, or been thrown much in their society, speaks much more correctly than the uneducated whites. For the Negro is nothing, as I said, if not an imitator; and of all people he loves to imitate the better class of whites. He has, therefore, caught fairly well their pronunciation of all common words, their tone and inflection. The real fun occurs in the use of his words and the incongruous relations he places them in. But the poor white—the ignorant, uneducated white—is not an imitator, but a creator, and some of the creations are enough to make us want to call out the National Guard to save the king’s English. For instance: “I taken a walk,” “I taken a drink,” “I taken my corn to mill.” This invariable use of the past participle for the past tense by the unlettered white is never used by the darky. He will say: “I tuck a drink,” “I tuck a walk,” which is much nearer right than the first named. “No, thank you, I wouldn’t choose any,” is the ignorant white’s way of declining a dish at a meal. He loves the subjunctive mood better than the indicative, as his invariable “Might you pass me them molasses?” shows. The darky will never make such mistakes as these. He is an imitator, pure and simple, and he never imitates that kind of a white man.
The truth is, there is and always has been, a strong antipathy—nay, positive aversion—between the poor white and the darky. Any trouble between the two races in the South is always between these two classes. The old-time Southerners of the better class, who owned the darky, or whose fathers owned him, are his best friends and staunchest supporters. But for them I sometimes think the poor white, with his ignorant, prejudiced ways and his natural hatred of the Negro would drive the darky out of the country. As it is, the better classes are for him, because they know him and have been raised with him and know him to be faithful and true and admirably adapted as a laborer to the country. The so-called Negro problem in the South exists more in the minds of writers of the Thomas Dixon order and in newspapers than in the land itself. And what there is of it will be solved forever and effectually the day the great tide of immigration is turned southward.
And not any good can come to the South in the yellow novels which Thomas Dixon is writing. That they are not literature goes without argument; but a novel may not be literature and yet may sell, just as oleomargarine may be colored deep saffron and passed for butter. As literature, then, they will deceive no one except, perhaps, the young who read them and know no better. And this is to be regretted, because there is danger always of the young growing up with false ideas of literature as well as of life, and they may imitate him. There are Dixons in every age of literature. They run from Smollett to the House of Mirth. They take advantage of the sores under the collar of the Galled Jade of Things to put money in their purse. They die and their stuff dies with them. They live as long as they do because the world has many people who would rather look at a sore than a star.